SWANFIRE One-Shots
by eleven19
Summary: First one is a Coffee Shop Au, in which Emma is a frazzled barista. The rest (if there will be more, depending on your guys's response) will be up to you-just leave me a review with the specific prompt you want me to write from! I write for YOU, my Swanfire darlings! (My only rule is no smut: I don't know how to write it.) And if there's ever anything else you want, just PM me.
1. Coffee

**SO... this was a response to one of my guest reviewers on "Oh, God, Not Another High School Story (SWANFIRE EDITION)" who asked I write a Swanfire coffee shop AU. Just a one-shot, but if you guys like this, and you want more one-shots, or any specific prompts, you let me know, and I will type my little fingers into a frenzy for you. Swanfire is Life.**

He had promised himself last time that that was the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

The truth was, Neal knew perfectly well that there was only one proper way to study for a history midterm: to pull an all-nighter and desperately cram everything into his head the night before. And even though it made him miserable beyond belief, tearing at his very will to live, and he swore to himself that he would never ever ever put himself through such pain and torment again, he knew it was the only possible way he could pass that damn midterm. Tonight, he would sell his soul to chapters six, seven, eight, and ten (they had skipped chapter nine for later).

And to do that, he needed coffee. Like, a _gallon_ of coffee. Continuously. Throughout the night. Sure, tomorrow morning, he'd look like an ADHD squirrel on crack, but he was going to need it if he was going to make it through the night with only his impossibly dull history book to keep him company.

He tugged open the door to CoffeeBean, one of the campus's better coffee bars, and tossed his backpack on a table before going to stand in line. He groaned, seeing the length of the line: it seemed like everyone and their grandmother had had the same idea. Although, he supposed it must have been a million times better to be on this side of the the counter: he could only imagine how fried the poor baristas' nerves must have been. Last semester, he'd worked at the corner Starbucks; and on particularly hectic days, he'd thought about hanging himself with his own apron strings.

By the time Neal got to the front of the line (like, a million years later), there were only two girls left working, as the rush had died down quite a bit since. One was a dark-haired girl, almost lazily putting a frappachino together: clearly a long-time veteran of the barista world, as she tossed together the drink like she was doing it in her sleep. The other girl—blonde, with cat-eyed glasses—was a wreck.

"I can take the next guest!" she called out frantically, rinsing out a blender with shaking hands.

Neal swiveled his head around, and realized that _he_ was the "next guest". _Oh, damn it,_ he thought, approaching the counter with a sinking feeling. Why did he get stuck with the newbie girl? What if his order was too complicated and she got all nervous and panicky and made herself sick? Then he'd feel guilty. He couldn't study like that, not with the guilt taking up all the space in his head! Where was he supposed to store the dates of battles no one cared about, or the names of politicians he didn't know?

"What can I get you?" the girl asked anxiously, blinking through her glasses rapidly.

"Iced coffee, large. Sorry, _venti,"_ he added hastily, as the girl looked helplessly at the stacks of cups beside her. "It's the biggest one—see?" He pointed it out for her.

The girl looked at him with immeasurable gratitude. "Thanks," she said exhaustedly. "I'm really sorry, this is my first day, and everything's been—" she made an explosion noise, waving her hands. "What's the name for the order?" she asked, uncapping a Sharpie.

"Neal."

" _Neal…"_ she muttered, scrawling it onto the cup. "Okay, that was iced coffee?"

"Mmm-hmm," he nodded.

"Okay, iced coffee, iced coffee…" She flipped through her recipe book, shaking her head. "I can't find it. Hang on, let me ask Ruby. RUBY!"

The dark-haired girl made a frustrated noise as Blondie (as Neal had taken to calling her in his head) pulled her away from flirting with her customer, who had long since paid for and received his drink. "I'm busy, Emma. Look at your recipe book."

"It's not in there—" Emma began, but Ruby cut her off.

"It's iced coffee, okay? It's not that hard." She pitched her voice down, though Neal could still hear her perfectly well. "Now leave me alone, I'm trying to get this guy to ask me out."

"But—"

Emma's shoulders dropped helplessly as Ruby turned away. Neal offered her half a smile as she turned back to him, sighing heavily.

"Okay, so I'm going to try making this for you, but I can barely mix _ice water_ now," she said forlornly. "I don't even know if I remember this one…"

"It's pretty easy," Neal said, leaning over the counter. "You remember how to work the espresso machine?"

Emma looked up at him in wonder for a minute, then slowly nodded. Neal smiled.

"Good. So it's just two shots—yeah, put 'em right under there, and press the button—no, no, the one over…there you go. Okay, now while that's brewing, go over to the ice, and use the biggest scoop. Looks like it's the yellow one."

Emma obeyed, going over to the ice machine. Neal nodded his approval as she held up the yellow scoop for assurance, and watched her carefully shovel the ice in there.

"Okay, good," he said as she returned, a small, relieved smile on her face. "Now, the espresso should be done, so you just pour it over top. Just dump it real quick, so it doesn't burn your hand… _there_ you go! Good!"

Emma beamed as she fitted the lid to his filled cup, and handed it over to him. "There you go, Neal."

"Thank you—" he made a show of checking her name-tag—" _Emma._ "

Even after he handed his $4.50 over (ridiculously expensive, though this time, he didn't gripe about it as much), Neal hovered by the counter. Emma glanced up from rinsing another blender, raising her eyebrows.

"Did I not make it right?" she asked, a hint of anxiety creeping into her voice. "I can make you another—"

"No, no, you did fine," Neal said, taking a sip to show her. "See? Pure deliciousness."

"Okay…" Emma said, a confused smile on her face. Neal scratched the back of his head, hardly believing what he was going to do. He never did this. This never happened. Why was he doing this? He had a midterm to cram for. He didn't have time for this, he had to deal with dates of battles and political names…

Meh. They were long dead, they weren't going anywhere.

"Hey, listen," he said hesitantly, leaning against the counter. "I… I don't usually do this, but…"

Emma turned off the water, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked toward him, a small smile on her face. "Yeah?"

Neal shrugged, tracing his finger along the counter, keeping his eyes down. "I dunno. I was just going to say…if you ever want to, you know, get coffee—like have someone _else_ get you coffee, not _you_ get you coffee—"

"Yeah?"

He shrugged again. "Nothing, just…I also like coffee, so maybe we could get coffee. Sometime." He chanced a glance up at her, raising his eyebrows. "Maybe?"

Emma tilted her head, twitching her mouth to the side. "Does it have to be coffee?" she asked. "Can we get juice?"

"Uh…" Neal blinked. Of all the responses he'd been expected, _that_ was not one of them. "Yeah, juice is…fine."

"It's just, I've only been working here six hours, and I'm already off coffee," she explained hastily. "Nothing against you and your coffee habits, I'm not judging. I'm just sick of it, myself."

"Juice is fine," he repeated, grinning. "I mean, I haven't had a juice-date since I was five, but juice is fine."

Emma smiled. "Okay, then. Me. You. Juice. And you can just text me—" she plucked the cup out of his hand, and scribbled her number on the other side—"when you're up for it."

"Okay," he said as she handed the cup back. He glanced down at her number, then back up. "I'm probably not going to save this cup, so I'm going to probably copy this down somewhere."

"Good plan."

"But I might forget where I copied it down."

"Less good plan."

"So I might come back and ask you to write it down again, and probably stay in case you get stuck on more drinks."

Emma raised her eyebrows, smiling. "That works, too."


	2. Bridesmaids and Batman

"Come on, Emma, come dance!" Ruby wheedled, trying to pull her toward the dance floor.

"I can't dance in heels, Ruby." Emma tried to tug her arm out of Ruby's red-taloned grip, but Ruby only clung more tightly.

"You're the maid of honor!"

"You're a drunk bridesmaid!" Emma imitated, and pried Ruby's fingers off. "Go on, go fulfill your destiny. Find a hot groomsman to violate in the bathroom."

"Emma…" she whined.

"Look!" Emma pointed as a tuxedoed guy hovered by the punch bowl, sniffing it experimentally. "Quick, grab him! _Sic,_ Ruby, _sic!"_

Ruby glowered. "You're killing my buzz," she said, pointing a menacing finger. "I just drank all those shots, and you're _killing_ my _buzz._ "

"Then don't waste them," Emma winked, and nodded toward Punch Bowl Guy. Ruby looked over, and gave him an appraising look, considering him; then, apparently deciding he was an appropriate mixture of hot and drunk, tossed her hair and strode toward him.

Emma breathed a sigh of relief and retreated back to the corner, trying to remain as invisible as possible. She looked toward the center of the dance floor, where Regina was swirling around with her new husband Robin. The two of them were hanging off each other as they half-danced, half-stumbled, laughing uproariously. Every so often, Robin would pull her closer to say something in her ear, and she'd smile at him like he was the only other person in the entire universe. They were impossibly happy, ridiculously in love.

"God, they're annoying."

Emma's head snapped to the side, startled not only by the man's sudden appearance, but the fact that he'd voiced the _exact_ thought running through her head. She vaguely recognized him as Robin's best man, one of his old college friends, but she couldn't remember his name.

"Emily, right?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Emma, actually. You're…?"

"Neal Cassidy," he said, shaking her hand. "Best friend, best man, former wingman—"he shrugged—"I also moonlight as Batman."

"I thought that was Bruce Wayne?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Neal scoffed.

"Well, _yeah,_ that's the story I put out to throw people off." He glanced at her, then went back to watching the rest of the bridal party embarrassing themselves on the dance floor. "So, you're the maid of honor, huh?"

"I'm the maid of honor," she agreed, watching Ruby lead Punch Bowl Guy away authoritatively as he stumbled along after her.

"Well, you know what they say about the best man and the maid of honor…"

Emma looked round at him in surprise. "Is Batman _flirting_ with me?" she said mockingly. "My, my, what would Lois Lane say?"

"Lois Lane is _Superman's_ girlfriend," Neal frowned. "And you just lost five points on the hotness scale."

Emma raised her eyebrows. "So now that puts me at a…?"

Neal tilted his head, twitching his mouth to the side as he considered her. Emma plastered her best _Toddlers-And-Tiara's-_ smile on her face, putting her hand on her hip and batting her eyes winningly at him.

"Oh, _fine,_ " he droned, rolling his eyes. "Keep your five points, what do I care?"

"So that keeps me at a…?"

Neal raised his eyebrows, gasping mockingly. "Are you _flirting_ with Batman?"

"No," she said cheerfully. "Just fishing for compliments."

"How charmingly insecure of you," he grinned. "Unfortunately, though, _I_ am not an enabler, so you're out of luck."

"Okay, what if I wasn't fishing for compliments?" Emma said, starting to enjoy herself. "What if I was flirting with Batman?"

"Mmm—" Neal clicked his teeth, shaking his head. "Girls who flirt with Batman tend to get kidnapped by the Joker, and then he leaves these annoying voicemails on my phone, and I have to try to call him back, but then he doesn't pick up, so _I_ have to leave a voicemail, and _he_ has to call me back, and we keep missing each other and clogging up each other's inboxes….it's a whole production."

"Well, it's nice that you guys keep in touch."

"Just how I was brought up," he shrugged. "Okay, so, I'm not going to ask you if want to dance, because I hate dancing, but do you want some punch?"

"Seeing as _that—"_ she nodded toward the drunken bridal party trying to line-dance—"is the result of punch, I'm going to say 'no'."

"Good thought, but I don't really know what other beverage to offer you that would imply what I'm trying to imply."

"Coffee."

"Too early for coffee."

"Water."

"Too boring."

"Pepsi."

Neal snapped his fingers and pointed at her, grinning. " _Pepsi."_ He straightened up, and started walking off in search of it, squinting through the dim lighting.

 _"_ Do they even have Pepsi here?" she asked, clacking after him, her toes cramming against the insides of her shoes. "Hang on—I got to take these off—"

He stopped, waiting as she slipped off her shoes and took them in one hand.

"Okay," she said, waving him on. "Let's go."

"Why would you wear those on a day where you have to walk up and down a church aisle, through a dance floor, however many flights of stairs, not to mention standing for the million hours it took that ceremony to finish?" Neal wondered aloud, sweeping his gaze side to side as he looked for the refreshment table.

"Because then I—there, over there," she interrupted herself, pointing it out to him. "Because then I have an excuse not to dance, without looking socially awkward."

"Do you often have a problem with looking socially awkward?" Neal asked.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Neal shrugged, stopping in front of the table and pouring them two plastic cups of Pepsi. "Not really," he said truthfully. "I can see where they get socially awkward."

Emma raised her eyebrows, taking the cup from him. "Oh, come on. I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Nope," he said, clinking his cup to hers. "Just some."

"Oh?" Emma smiled. "Which ones?"

"The socially awkward ones."

"Oh." She frowned. "Okay, that wasn't exactly the answer I was expecting."

"Yeah, I know, I just…" Neal sighed, flopping his hand. "I get exhausted by the whole clever-flirty-banter thing, after a while, you know? You have to beat around the bush for _hours_ and _hours_ and by the end of the night, everything sounds like it could mean something else, and I don't know what the hell is going on."

Emma looked at him for a long time, twisting her mouth to the side. "Okay," she said finally. "I'm going to embrace my social awkwardness, forget the flirty banter, and just be real with you for a sec."

Neal waved his hand, prodding her. "Go for it."

"You seem like a nice guy. You seem like a fun guy. And you pull off that suit very well. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"I have an inkling," he grinned. "This is you asking me out, right?"

"Yep."

"How very modern of you," he said, flattening a napkin against the table to scribble his number down. "I suppose, I'm going to have to wait by the phone, wondering if you're going to call me."

"The rule is to wait at least three days, or you look pathetic," Emma said, taking the proffered napkin. "Any sooner than that, and you'll know I _like_ like you."

"Can't have that," he agreed, glancing toward the floor as Robin shouted his name and waved him over. "Ah… I'm being summoned."

"Go," she said, waving him off. "I'll talk to you in three days."

"And not a day sooner."

Emma rolled her eyes, smiling. "Goodbye, Batman."

 **Okay, children...So, as per your requests, multiple reviews, I will turn that Coffee Shop one into a longer story. You're right: we SFers need MORE fan fiction. I also got a request to write a "Tangled" SF AU. That will happen, too.**

 **I will FLOOD this site with Swanfire. Beware CS and SQ. Beware.**

 **As always, review, leave me requests, and your wish shall be granted.**


	3. Moving Boxes

_Boxes._

There were so many of them. There were towers of them, some reaching almost to the ceiling; others were in small piles randomly strewn throughout the kitchen; then there were the few orphan boxes, left abandoned on countertops and tables because by that point, Emma had been too tired to try to stack them.

She'd planned to do this in a organized, orderly fashion: kitchen boxes go in the kitchen; bedroom boxes go in the bedroom; family room boxes go in the family room. For a while, her system had worked: she cheerfully sorted the boxes into their respective rooms, struggling with the heavier ones, juggling multiple smaller ones at a time. She had developed a nice little assembly line for herself: pick up the box, read the label, toss it in the room, and repeat. Pick up, read, toss, repeat; pick up, read, toss, repeat.

And then she'd found one that said "miscellaneous."

She stared at it in wonder, tracing her fingers along the mysterious label. _Miscellaneous?_ What did _that_ mean? Did it have a jumble of different rooms inside it? Had she sealed it before checking to see what room it belonged to? What did it _mean?_

Emma had eventually decided to "set it aside", and went back to tossing kitchen boxes in the kitchen and bedroom boxes in the bedroom and—another "miscellaneous"? She had gritted her teeth, feeling her anxiety rise as her organization system suffered another blow. What was this "miscellaneous" nonsense?

She had set that aside as well, but a few boxes later, another one had surfaced.

And then, another.

And then another after that, and another after _that_ , and then another one, and another one, and another one—

Finally, she just gave up: she threw up her hands in surrender to the God of Moving Men and Mislabeled Boxes, and just started piling them wherever she could find room.

It had been a week since, and Emma still hadn't mustered the courage to actually start _unpacking_ them; hell, she couldn't even cut the sealing tape right now. She was still living out of her duffel bag. Who _knew_ what fresh hell lay underneath the cardboard flaps? What if the labels were wrong? What if she opened a box, expecting to find forks, and found cables and wires instead? What if her boxes had been mixed up with someone else's, and she accidentally opened up someone else's mail order Russian bride (did they come in boxes?)? What did "miscellaneous" mean, and would it get ugly when she found out?

"You do realize how ridiculous this is, don't you?" Ruby asked, navigating her way through the maze of teetering box towers to the kitchen, where Emma was busy flipping their grilled cheese sandwiches. "You've developed a box phobia."

"It's not a phobia, it's a—" Emma waved her hand, shrugging—"it's a box apprehension. So they make me a little nervous, so what? Moving's a bitch."

"Yeah, but the longer you put off _confronting_ the boxes—" Ruby pushed herself to a seat on the counter—"the worse it's going to get. The behavioral theory states—"

"Stop trying to make that _one_ psych class you took seem worthwhile," Emma cut in, unsticking two paper plates and dropping the sandwiches on them with burning fingers. "You're annoying me now."

"You can't live like this," Ruby frowned, taking her plate. "It's unhealthy."

"Whatever," she shrugged, ripping off her crust. "Now, stop nagging me about the boxes and tell me about your new boyfriend."

"Graham?" Ruby raised her eyebrows, snorting. "Forget that, it's over."

"Already?" Emma said, looking at her sympathetically. "Why, what happened?"

"He's gay."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"That sucks," Emma frowned, wiping her hands on her napkin. "How'd you find out?"

"Well, I saw him in the park the other day…."

"Yeah?"

Ruby smiled humorlessly. "He and his boyfriend seemed very happy together."

Emma winced. " _Ouch._ "

"So, how's that for pathetic?" Ruby pushed away her plate, slumping miserably. "Not only is he gay—he's also cheating on me."

Emma opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a knock at her door. "Hang on," she said, tossing her napkin down. "Let me get that real quick."

The knocking became more insistent as she tried to make her way through the box jungle, turning sideways and lifting her feet ridiculously high to navigate through them. "I'm coming!" she called, sidestepping the last few piles. She turned the handle, pulling the door open.

"Yeah?" she said, raising her eyebrows at the dark-haired man standing on her doorstep.

"Yeah, hi, I'm your neighbor from—" he jutted his thumb behind him—"across the hall?"

"Uh… okay. Hi." She shook his hand, smiling strangely at him. "I'm Emma."

"Neal," he said, smiling back.

"Okay." Emma folded her arms, leaning against the doorway. "How can I help you, Neal?"

"I was wondering if I could use your phone? I—" He scratched the side of his head, smiling in an embarrassed sort of way. "I kinda locked myself out, and I need to call my buddy to ask him for the spare."

"Uh…" Emma glanced over her shoulder at Ruby, who was frowning and shifting in her seat to see who was at the door. "Yeah, that's fine." She stepped back, holding the door open a little wider. "Come in."

"Thanks." Neal followed her inside, looking around curiously as Emma ducked around boxes to fetch her phone. "Lots of boxes," he remarked. "You just move in?"

"Yeah, last week."

"Last week? Really?" Neal frowned, nudging one of the boxes with his shoe. "They're all still sealed."

"She's got a box phobia," Ruby said from the counter.

"It's not a phobia."

"Box. Phobia." Ruby twisted around on the counter, smiling dryly at Neal. "I'm Ruby."

"Neal," he nodded. "How you doing?"

"Concerned. My best friend's got a box phobia."

"It's not a phobia!" Emma exclaimed. "It's a box apprehension, okay?"

"Box apprehension?" Neal repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Did you just make that up?"

"No, she actually made it up about ten minutes ago," Ruby said, ignoring Emma's exasperated groan. "It's how she avoids unpacking, by giving herself made up mental disorders."

"No offense, but that kinda sounds like a mental disorder unto itself," Neal said, taking the proffered phone from Emma. "Thanks."

"No problem," she said, watching him as he punched in a number and put the phone to his ear. He blew out a breath, looking up at the ceiling as he waited for someone to pick up. "Robin? Hey, it's me…"

He wandered away to the window, holding a hand to his ear as he talked into the phone. Emma followed him with her eyes, leaning back against the counter next to Ruby.

"He's _hot,"_ Ruby said in her ear, smiling widely.

"You think?" Emma tilted her head, considering: he was good-looking, in a lazy sort of way. That hoodie definitely looked like it had seen better days, and Neal had an air about him that said, _I can't be bothered to stay fully awake around you._ But he had an easy smile, and was possibly the first person she'd met who made the phrase "twinkling eyes" seem like an actual thing.

"You get dibs, 'cause he's your neighbor, I guess," Ruby sighed. "But ask him if he has a sexy brother or something, okay?"

"Ruby…" Emma closed her eyes exhaustedly. "I have to live across the hall from this guy. Do you honestly think I'm going to go up to him and say, ' _Hey, Neal, got any sexy brothers?'"_

"Well, you don't have to say it like that," Ruby said reasonably. "Just fish around for me, drop some hints." She nudged Emma in the ribs as Neal made his way back, stepping around boxes. "Don't bother with subtlety. So long as you avoid the phrases 'low standards' and 'sex for money', I'm good."

"Do what?" Neal asked, handing Emma back her phone. "Thanks, by the way. Robin said he'll be here in ten."

"Okay. You can hang out here until then. If you want," Emma added, shrugging casually. Neal nodded his thanks, pulling out a stool.

"You hungry?" Ruby asked, smiling down at him from her perch on the counter. She slid her plate in front of him. "I didn't touch mine."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, but I'm not really a grilled-cheese-kind-of guy."

"I also have—" Emma opened her cupboards, looking for something edible. "I have some stale Cheerios….a granola bar…and that's it."

"Let's go—" Neal shrugged, tilting his hand back and forth. "Cheerios."

"They're stale," Emma reminded him, tossing him the bag.

"It happens. Things die, food goes stale…it's the circle of life."

"Wow," Ruby said, raising her eyebrows. "That's deep."

"I'm a freelance philosopher," Neal said, fishing out some Cheerios. "You should hear my thoughts on the button's role in the modern world."

"The button's role?" Emma repeated, going back to her now-lukewarm grilled cheese. "What are you talking about?"

"Well—" Neal shifted in his seat, shrugging—"in this day and age, I think we should have progressed past the button by this point. Found a more refined way to fasten our clothes."

"We have zippers," Emma pointed out. "And what's wrong with buttons?"

"Too small," Neal said firmly. "It takes forever to push them through the little holes, especially when it's a new shirt or something. I hate them."

"Hating on buttons," Emma said, shaking her head. "That's despicable."

"I take it you're a fan of the button?"

"I prefer zippers, but yes, I support the button." Emma cocked her head, raising her eyebrows. "I hope that's not going to be a problem for you?"

"It's okay," Neal said, waving his hand. "My parents are button-people. I'm used to it."

"What about your siblings?" Ruby asked, arching an eyebrow. "Are they button-people?"

Neal smiled, shaking his head. "Only child."

"Oh." Ruby slumped. "Damn it…" She pushed herself off the counter, sighing heavily. "All right, I'm going to go. I have to break up with Graham before he breaks up with me."

"Bye," Emma said as Ruby picked up her purse."Go dump his ass."

Ruby gave her a thumbs-up without turning around, making her way around the boxes. Neal twisted in his seat, raising his hand in farewell as Ruby swung open the door and disappeared through it. It slammed shut behind her.

"So—" Neal turned back with a grin—"what's the story with the boxes?"

"There's no story," she shrugged. "I just didn't get around to it yet."

"You've been here a week, and you haven't unpacked a single box?" he said disbelievingly. "Don't you need your stuff?"

"I have my stuff, it's just…secured."

"Ah…" Neal nodded slowly. "And what about the box apprehension, what's that?"

"I…" Emma slowly ripped her sandwich, feeling embarrassed. "I found some boxes that were labelled 'miscellaneous'."

"Okay…?"

"And I didn't know where to sort them."

"Okay…?"

"So I gave up, and now I live in fear of my boxes."

"Can't you just—" Neal waved his hand, looking at her dubiously—"start unpacking the better-labelled ones first?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because if I start unpacking them, I'll start putting them away in drawers and stuff. And what if I fill up a drawer or shelf with something that I found out would better hold something else that I haven't unpacked yet?"

"Then you act like a grown-up, and deal with it?" Neal suggested.

Emma looked at him in annoyance and was mentally preparing a comeback when a knock sounded at the door.

"That'll be Robin," Neal said, sliding off his stool. Emma followed him through the box-maze, narrowly avoiding sending a tower toppling over. Neal stepped over a few randomly strewn boxes and twisted the door handle, opening the door to a sandy-haired man, who looked a mixture of exasperated and exhausted. He held up his hand, dangling a key.

"Your spare," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Thanks, Robin," Neal said cheerfully, plucking it out of his hand. "This is my neighbor, Emma—"

He gestured to Emma, who peeked around Neal with a smile, waving.

"Hi, Robin."

"Hi…?"

"Okay," Neal said, clapping his hands together. "Thank you again, Emma, for the phone call and the Cheerios."

"Thank _you_. For the button enlightenment."

Neal paused on his way out the door. "If you need help with the boxes, I'm just across the hall. And seriously, please get me if you go another two days without unpacking anything, otherwise it's going to drive me absolutely nuts."

Emma blinked as he abruptly strode out the door, swinging his key around his finger. "Okay," she said, slowly raising a hand in farewell. "Bye."

"Two days!" he called over his shoulder. "I'll see you in two days."

"How do you know I won't have started by then?" she called back. Neal turned around with a smile, walking backwards.

"You have box apprehension," he grinned. "You're not unpacking _anything."_

 **More on the way! I read reviews, and I have the prompts you guys have given me so far! Fear not, my Darlings, they're coming soon! Keep reviewing and requesting, anything!**


	4. Bundle of Joyish

**So, this is if Emma and Neal got back together in the show, and then a couple years later, she's 'spectin'.**

The timer went off.

Emma closed her eyes, breathing out shakily. Her head was throbbing as blood pounded violently through her veins, inflaming every nerve with anxiety. Panic shot through her heart and pierced her lungs as she looked down at the little stick.

Were there actual two little red lines? Or was she seeing double?

"Emma?" Neal knocked on the door, his voice slightly muffled. "How's it going in there?"

Emma didn't answer: she just stared at the little stick, waiting for her eyes to focus until there was only one little red line. Because there was no way there could be _two._ Because if there were two, that would mean she was…

"Emma?"

"Come on," she whispered anxiously, her wide eyes fixed on the two red lines. "This isn't happening, this _isn't_ happening."

"Em!" Neal pounded on the door. "It's been ten minutes! What are you _doing?_ "

Emma flung open the door, looking at him helplessly. "It's positive."

Neal's eyes widened. "Positive?"

"It's positive."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

Neal blinked rapidly, following her in as she started pacing. "How positive are you that it's positive?"

"Neal—!" Emma threw it in the trash, kicking the basket. "It's _positive,_ okay?"

"O _kay._ 'S'cuse me." Neal's eyebrows shot up and he let out a low whistle, stepping past Emma to take a seat on the edge of the tub. Emma folded her arms and walked over, slowly sinking to a seat beside him. Neal rubbed his hands over his eyes a few times, then down his face, letting out a slow breath.

"So…"

"So." Emma closed her eyes, shaking her head. "Someone's going to have to tell Henry."

"…Yes."

Emma frowned, opening her eyes suspiciously. He side-eyed her back, raising an eyebrow.

They both knew what was coming.

"Not it—!"

"—Not _it!_ DAMN IT!" Emma swore as Neal pointed at her, smiling triumphantly. "Come on, Neal," she whined, letting her head fall back. "I'm the one who has to—you know, _carry_ this kid for nine months, the least you could do is notify the _existing_ kid."

"But you're so much better at that kind of thing than me," Neal said pleadingly, grasping her hand between his folded ones. " _Please?_ "

"Neal!" Emma said exasperatedly. "Are you serious right now?"

"Hey, I won, fair and square," he said defensively. "What was the point of that if you were going to make me tell him, anyway?"

"Why don't we _both_ tell him?" Emma said, raising her eyebrows. "I mean—that's what normal parents do, right?"

Neal blinked at her a few times: he didn't have to say anything, they both knew what he was thinking.

What right did the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming have discussing "normal parents" with the son of Rumplestiltskin?

" _Or,_ " he said, holding up a finger, "you tell him and I nod supportively in the background?"

"Yeah, that sounds fair," Emma said witheringly. "What, I have to do all the work here?"

Neal shrugged. "I did _help,_ didn't I?"

"Neal, I swear to God…" she said through clenched teeth. "If you think this is funny—"

"I'm nervous, okay? I don't know how to—" he waved his hand vaguely—"you know, do the whole…baby…thing."

"You think I do?" Emma asked shrilly. "I never took care of a baby! When did I take care of a baby?"

"I don't know how to change diapers or feed it! I don't know how to get a kid to sleep! How? How do you get a kid to sleep?" He looked at her, motioning her to answer him. "How do you get a kid to sleep, Em?"

"Well, I don't know!" Emma said defensively. "I've never done it, either!"

Neal groaned, his head falling back. "I'm going to suck at this," he complained.

"No, you won't," Emma said, rolling her eyes. "Henry's always going on about how you're, ' _like_ , _the coolest dad ever!'_ I'm the one who's going to suck at this. I never even babysat."

"Maybe Henry's good with children," Neal said thoughtfully. "You know, that's really why people _have_ multiple children: you raise the first one well enough, they can raise the others."

"Henry can be our back-up plan," Emma agreed. "But I'd rather do the actual raising of a child before I start delegating him other children to raise."

" _Him?_ " Neal asked, raising his eyebrows. "You already know what it is?"

"You can't tell that from a pregnancy test," Emma said scathingly. "Jesus."

"I hope that wasn't a name suggestion," he frowned. "Because I feel like that's just setting him up for failure if you name him 'Jesus'. I mean, the last guy named 'Jesus' set a pretty high bar. It's going to be tough to beat."

"Of course, I'm not suggesting to name him 'Jesus'," Emma said through clenched teeth.

"That's good," Neal said. "Because, uh…I-I _do_ have suggestions."

"Mmm-hmm, like what?"

"How about…Jamie?"

Emma turned her head, looking at him incredulously. "As in, _Lannister?_ "

"Okay, _not_ Jamie." Neal exhaled slowly, thinking hard. "What about Thor?"

"Seriously?" Emma said, raising her eyebrows derisively. "You want to name a child 'Thor'?"

"No one's going to mess with a kid named 'Thor'," he pointed out. "He'll be safe from bullies his entire _life_."

"What if it's a girl?"

"Even better. No guy is going to try anything with a girl named 'Thor'." Neal smiled. "We can tell them all it's a name she picked up doing hard time prison."

Emma snorted. "She's barely the size of a walnut, and you're already scaring off her boyfriends."

"No. _Thor_ is scaring them off." Neal's smile lingered even as he shook his head. "Okay, but seriously—what do you want to name her if she's a girl?"

"I was thinking 'Charlotte', actually."

"'Charlotte'?" Neal repeated, wrinkling his forehead. "Who did you know named 'Charlotte'."

"I didn't know a 'Charlotte'," Emma frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Em," Neal said exasperatedly. "No one names a kid 'Charlotte' unless they're naming her for a dead aunt or something."

"Well, what would you name a girl? _Not Thor,_ " she added, narrowing her eyes.

Neal held up his hands in surrender. "That's not what I was going to say."

"Okay…" Emma lifted her chin, eyeing him suspiciously. "What _were_ you going to say?"

"Alex." Neal looked proud of himself. "It works for a boy or a girl. It's sufficiently cool. And it has an 'x' in it, and 'x' is just a fun letter in general."

" _Alex…_ " Emma tilted her head considering. "I'll think about it."

Neal shrugged. "Might as well. We've got nine months to argue about this, I don't want to blow it all in one day."

"You know what I'm really looking forward to?" Emma said as he helped her up. "Arguing over the last name. I mean, do we go 'Swan', do we go 'Cassidy'…?"

"How about… _Swassidy?"_

 _"_ Neal…"

 **Did you like it?**


	5. I Love Fish (preview)

**This is actually more of a preview of a Swanfire story I will eventually post (still working out the kinks), but I decided to give you a taste. It will basically be Emma and Neal as an adorkable sitcom couple. In this instance, Neal struggles to say "I love you", which frustrates Emma because... come on, Neal.**

The tension from last night's argument hung heavily between them, like a storm cloud growing steadily darker. Neal peeked at Emma under the guise of studying his menu, and felt a nervous tug in his stomach: she did not look happy. Her jaw was tensed as her narrowed eyes skimmed the menu, her movements stiff and rigid. Every so often, she would exhale: a long, drawn-out breath, heavy with meaning that he couldn't decipher. He knew she was angry, that much was very clear. He knew he was supposed to be feeling ashamed and guilty about….something. But exactly what, he wasn't sure. All he knew for certain was that he was treading on dangerously thin ice.

"So," he said, in an effort to lighten the mood. "The fish looks good."

She flicked her eyes up. "Does it?" she asked dryly.

"Mmm-hmm," he said, determined to be cheerful. "Lemon. That sounds good, huh?"

Emma pulled her lips back in an insincere smile, and returned to her menu. Neal drew in a long, considering breath.

"I think I've settled on the fish," he said hesitantly.

"Then get the fish."

"I…" He shook his head. "I don't know, though."

She closed her eyes exasperatedly. "Then don't get the fish," she said through clenched teeth.

"I do want the fish," he said quietly, looking up at her. "I just can't… I'm not sure."

Emma snapped her menu shut. "Can't what?" she said, giving him a hard look. "What can't you do?"

"I can't…I don't know."

"No," she said instantly. "Tell me what's going on in your head. Everything that's going on, just…say it. For once, just tell me what you're thinking."

"I… I don't know if I can make that kind of commitment," Neal said, shrugging. "I mean, I care about the fish. I-I want the fish to be happy. I can't imagine finding something better than the fish."

"Then what's the problem?" she asked, nearly crying with frustration. "Why can't you just grow up and commit to the fish? If you know how you feel about the fish, what is so hard about saying it to the fish? Maybe—just maybe—the fish feels the same way."

"Because I might not want the fish once I get it!" he said, feeling panicked. "Sure, I think I'm ready to get the fish, I'm excited about the fish, I've got a great thing going with the fish. But that's now. What if I find out that the fish and I aren't as great together as I thought we were? What if the fish starts to regret the whole thing once I get it?"

Emma blew out a breath, clearly trying to remain patient. "Do you love the fish?" she asked, staring at him intently.

Neal shifted uncomfortably, grimacing. That word. That horrible four-letter word that gave him heart palpitations and made his skin crawl. The L-word. He didn't understand why people thought it was so important to say out loud; why they had to make such a big deal about it. It was a word, for Christ's sake. Like "pie" or "spatula" or "fussbudget".

But Emma took it all very seriously: she thought it was of the utmost important that everyone express their feelings—especially him. Even though she knew he got hives just saying, "I feel _sick_ ", let alone all the fluffy emotional crap she was always pushing him to say.

"Do you _love_ the fish?" she repeated, leaning forward in her earnestness.

"I…" The word dangled in his mouth. He could never say it. It was too… blech. He couldn't say it. It was too weird, too…well, yeah, "blech" was probably the best way to describe it.

But Emma… He looked at her, feeling anxious at the intensity of her gaze. She was so convinced she needed to hear it. He had to do it, this time. He had to just grit his teeth and do it.

"I lllllllllll…" It wasn't coming out. His mouth simply could not shape the word. He tried again, screwing his face up with the effort. "I llllllll….ike the fish," he said finally. "I really extremely like the fish."

Oh, shit.

His insides froze as Emma stared at him for a moment, visibly shaking with controlled rage. "You…. _like_ the fish," she said, taking a steadying breath as she slowly sat back. "You _like_ the fish."

"I care about the fish more than anything," Neal said, scrambling to recover. "Seriously. You know how I feel about the fish, I just can't—" he waved his hands impatiently—"I can't say it."

"But why?" she pressed exasperatedly. "What do you think's going to happen, if you tell the fish you love it? Do you think it's going to run off or something?"

"No. I mean… fish can't run," he said lamely. Emma slit her eyes at him.

"You know what I mean," she said icily.

Neal looked at her for a moment, gulping. She waited for him to answer, her eyes fixated on his every move. He knew what he was supposed to say, but…ugh. Sentiment. How suffocating.

Literally, it seemed, as his throat closed up. He tugged at his collar. "Is it stuffy in here?Is it me, or are you feeling kind of—?" He fanned himself with both hands, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. "I'm nauseous. Are you nauseous? I feel nauseous."

Emma's eyebrows flew up. "Well, at least you feel something," she said flatly. "I was afraid you might be a robot." She snatched her purse up, and pushed her chair out from the table.

"Em, come on," he sighed as she pulled her coat on. "Don't get upset, I'm… I'm trying. Ish."

She smiled at him sarcastically and bent down to whisper in his ear. "Try the soup," she advised. "If you don't like it, you can always send it back."

"What?" he said, twisting in his seat as she flounced off. "Wait, what does that mean?" he called after her, standing up. "Emma? What's soup? I don't know what that means!"

 **I'm still going to flood this site with Swanfire, I'm just gathering my ammunition! WAR IS COMING, CAPTAIN SWAN. FEAR ME.**


	6. Bundle of Joyish Part 2

**This is a sequel to the Swanfire Baby Chapter.**

"Henry."

"Dad."

"Uh…We, uh…we have something to tell you."

Henry lifted his head: his parents were standing over him, shifting uncomfortably. Emma avoided his gaze, twisting her swan pendant between her fingers, the way she always did when she was nervous.

"Okay…" he said slowly. "Shoot."

Neal took Emma's hand, pulling her down to sit on the couch. He glanced at her other hand twisting her necklace. "Em, you're going to break the chain again."

"That's a lie."

"Stop twisting it."

"Don't try to tame my spirit."

"Guys," Henry said loudly as Neal opened his mouth to retort. "I thought you had something to tell me."

"Right." Emma looked at Neal, nervously gripping his hand. "Neal, you want to tell him?"

"Ooh—" Neal sucked in a breath. "I thought we agreed I was going to nod supportively in the background."

"You agreed. I did not."

"But remember how you're so much better at this than me?"

"I'm not, actually."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're really talented." Neal smiled at her. "I believe in you."

Emma stared at him with half-lidded eyes. "Neal…"

"Emma…"

" _Guys._ " Henry looked between the two of them, slightly shaking his head. "Can you just tell me? Before I start assuming someone died?"

"Who died?" Emma said, looking alarmed. "Did somebody die?"

Henry stared at her. " _No._ "

"Oh…Okay, good."

Henry raised his eyebrows: they were still just sitting there, Emma anxiously twisting her chain, Neal eyeing it warily. "So…?" Henry waved his hands, motioning for them to speak. "Come on, what is it? I'm getting worried here."

Emma elbowed Neal. "Tell him."

He elbowed her back. " _You_ tell him."

"You're such a child."

"Yeah. But it's okay, I've made my peace with that."

"Somebody talk to me," Henry said loudly, talking over them.

Emma glanced at Neal, her eyes pleading. Neal looked at her for a long time, leaning his head back reluctantly as she silently begged him.

 _Please?_ her eyes said.

 _Please, Em…Please don't make me._

 _But Neal…don't you love me?_

Neal closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. _Damn it._

"Okay, Henry," he sighed, turning back to face his son. "Here's the thing…you remember how fifteentish years ago, you were born?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I _remember,_ but okay."

"So, fifteentish years ago you were born…and first of all, I'd like to apologize for not being there, but there were—" Neal waved his hand—"extenuating circumstances—"

"Yeah, I—"

"You know, August was a real prick, he really screwed us over—"

"I know, it's—"

"I mean, he made it sound like I was going to be personally responsible for the Apocalypse—"

"Dad!" Henry said exasperatedly.

"Basically, what I'm trying to say here is—" Neal glanced at Emma, who gave him a nod of encouragement. He smiled briefly at her and turned back to Henry, taking a deep breath."Okay, if you had to name your little sister, would you go 'Charlotte' or 'Thor'?"

Henry's eyebrows rose. "Is this a hypothetical, or…?"

Emma shook her head. "You're our tiebreaker. You have to vote."

" _Say 'Thor',_ " Neal whispered, nodding his head.

Henry blinked at them with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open. He tried to speak, but all he could manage were a few squawking noises.

"Henry?" Emma asked worriedly.

"You don't look so good, buddy," Neal frowned concernedly.

Henry swallowed, his voice coming out high-pitched and squeaky. " _I'll be fine._ "

"Are you sure?" Emma asked, twisting her necklace again. "You seem extremely not fine."

"I just need a glass of water," he rasped, getting up from his seat.

"It's not even that big a deal, Henry," Emma said, following him as he walked into the kitchen on trembling legs.

"Yeah," Neal joined in. "It'll be liking having a dog…except not, because obviously you can't put a baby in a kennel. That's messed up."

"Don't say it's like having a _dog,_ " Emma said, swatting him.

"I'm trying to ease the tension."

"If your father could be serious for _once_ in his life—" Emma gave Neal a stern look—" he would tell you, it's _not_ like having a dog, it's like having a little brother or sister. Which most people do, so it's not even a big deal, so there's no reason to be upset—"

"I'm not upset," Henry said, surprising himself as much as them. "I'm…well, I'm something, but I'm not upset." He shrugged. "We're kind of like a legit family now. You know—mom, dad, cool older kid, lame younger kid…This is a good thing, right?"

"Uh…." Emma blinked rapidly. "Yeah. Yeah, it's a good thing."

"I thought so," Neal shrugged. "I mean, I still think we should talk about getting a dog—"

"Oh, my God, _yes,_ " Henry said instantly. "We _have_ to have a dog."

"A _big_ dog," Neal said, his eyes gleaming. "Like, a _huge_ dog—"

"Yeah!"

" _No,_ " Emma said firmly. "No dogs."

"Mom—"

"Em—"

"Guys, I'm not kidding about this. No. Dogs. That's final."

Henry exchanged a conspiratorial look with Neal, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

This wasn't over. The Great Dog Debate would not be laid to rest until there was some kind of floppy-eared, obnoxiously-affectionate mutt in their backyard.

 **Can you imagine puppy-dog-eyed Neal WITH a puppy dog? I don't even like dogs, and I'm squeeing!**


End file.
